


How Rare And Beautiful

by Sebbastia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And Dany deserved better in general, Canon-Compliant, Daenerys' POV, F/M, Friendship and fluff with a touch of romance, Just because Jorah deserved to be a bit happy, Let's give them some proper development yeah?, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, So no one is a fucking minor yay, Spoilers for Season 8, With Plot Additions, character study-esque, show-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebbastia/pseuds/Sebbastia
Summary: "There is something fated about how he always returned to her. She can see serendipity in his timing, his determination, his loyalty and his bravery, but he is not a footnote in the greater story of their time. At least, it doesn’t feel that way. Not now. Not to her.”A posthumous study of Jorah and Daenerys’ relationship, from the beginning to the end.Bitter, bittersweet and a bit romantic.





	1. Part 1: Past

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this post-ep 3 and intended it to be a oneshot, sort of a tribute to Jorah, but it got a bit out of hand and now it’s almost 50 pages long, so I’ve split it into chapters. They are all finished, so I’ll publish them one after another. There is some Jon x Dany, but if you’re here for that you might be a bit disappointed. I’ve tried to keep to British spelling, but I’m American, so I’m sorry if there are any ‘u’s missing from ‘colour’ and so on. I also italicize words in Dothraki, like the books; it’s not just overused emphasis.
> 
> Also this is show-verse. Book-Jorah is a creep, show-Jorah is dreamy.

_“Will it hurt?”_

 

_“Only for a moment, my queen.”_

 

_“And once it is done?”_

 

_“You can begin again. Somewhere else, as someone else, perhaps.”_

 

_“And that is a good thing? To lose one’s former self?”_

 

_“She will never be lost. She will be shaped by the future. I wager she will be great.”_

 

_“And you will be there?”_

 

_“Aye, khaleesi. Always.”_

 

~

 

The first night with her _khal_ had been dreadful.

 

Belly churning with anxiety, smarting between her legs, bruised on her hips and bitten on her shoulders, she lay beside Drogo and shivered despite the heat. He slept heavily and long. She was still as stone all night, hardly daring to breathe, fearful of her new husband who spat out greetings and insults alike in a tongue she didn’t understand. Her brother slept under heavy guard in his own tent. She would never have a tent to herself again.

 

Considering that dawn must be nearing, she slipped from under the horse skins and clothed herself. The warrior guarding the entrance stirred as she left, but allowed her to leave.

 

_I’m his khaleesi, now…_

 

She chose a rocky outcrop outside of the _khalasar_ upon which to watch the sunrise. She tensed at the sound of footsteps, and then relaxed minutely when she saw the Westerosi knight a short distance behind her, caught in the light of the camp, hand on his sword, observing her with concern.

 

“Is everything alright, _khaleesi_?” Asked Ser Jorah Mormont. He had started addressing her by her official title the second she had been married.

 

“Of course, ser…I just couldn’t sleep…”

 

The air was crisp, the edge of drowsiness and the lightening horizon heralding the new day. The silence hung heavy. She turned back to the vast expanse of open land she had been watching. She felt his eyes on her in a manner that could only be described as awkward.

 

“I beg your pardon, my queen, as I am sure you desire solitude, but I must ask your leave to stay and guard you. These are foreign lands, and no harm should come to the _khaleesi_ so soon after her wedding.”

 

“You have my permission.”

 

She did want to be alone, but he seemed genuine and wise, and she thought she would do well to heed his council. He took several thoughtful paces back to give her space and then raised his head to keep watch.

 

After a few moments of silence, her curiosity got the better of her.

 

“You are awake very early, Ser Jorah.”

 

“Aye, _khaleesi_.”

 

“Why is this? You are not leaving with the hunting party, are you?”

 

“No, _khaleesi_. I merely rise early out of habit. It is coincidence that I have come across you.”

 

“Oh.” She said. Despite the cacophony of thoughts banging around the inside of her head, she did feel reassured to have someone watching her, someone whose intentions seemed geared towards her safety, someone from her homeland who spoke the Common Tongue. A sharp pain ran through her where she sat on the rock, sore from the _khal_ , and she shifted, biting back a hiss of complaint. She watched his head turn towards the minute show of discomfort, but he said nothing.

 

“Will you be staying with us, ser?”

 

“Yes, _khaleesi_.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“For as long as I am needed and welcome.”

 

“And you cannot return home?”

 

“Alas, no. My exile is permanent. I am more than willing to serve your brother, and assist in restoring the true royal family to the Iron Throne. This is my purpose now.”

 

“I am glad to hear that. I would like to hear a great many things from you.”

 

“As you wish, _khaleesi_.”

 

He looked at ease where he stood, leaning on his hip, his sharp eyes observing but his posture relaxed. However, Daenerys was struck by the desire to cling to this little piece of home and wring it for all it was worth.

 

“Would you sit with me, Ser Jorah?”

 

He looked a little surprised at that. He shifted where he stood before inclining his head.

 

“If it pleases you, your grace.”

 

He seated himself a respectable distance away. Though older than her brother by a considerable number of years, he seemed to bristle with more vitality. Weather-worn and experienced, he was a lot taller than Viserys, and his build was strong in a more lithe and streamlined way than Khal Drogo’s bulk. She had heard that the Dothraki held him in esteem, not because of his Westerosi title, but because of his prowess as a warrior. He garnered respect with both word and sword. She considered that he’d make a useful ally.

 

Silence. The wind whispered through the long grass. The sky lightened.

 

“Are you in pain, _khaleesi_?”

 

“No.”

 

He didn’t look at her much. His posture was easy, but as the sister of his king and the wife of his _khal_ , it seemed difficult for him to decide how much interaction was acceptable.

 

“You know the Dothraki, ser?”

 

“I do.”

 

“They accepted you despite your heritage?”

 

“The Dothraki value strength and bravery above names and diplomacy. My experience with them as a people is generally a positive one. They welcome guests who they deem worthy and they respect men who respect them. However, I am not one of them. I never will be. I can speak their tongue, eat around their fires, ride alongside them, but I am not Dothraki.” He glanced at her then. She must have looked worried, or determined, or perhaps there was a different expression altogether on her face, because it gave him reason to pause, and voice the first in a long line of opinions he would share with her.

 

“But you might be, yet.”

 

“Me? I think that unlikely, I am not strong like you, or accustomed to riding. I don’t even speak their language.”

 

He gave a small, polite smile. For a warrior, he had a remarkably gentle face. Were Daenerys to choose to trust him, she would have to base it on character merit, not his kind smile.

 

“You have something more valuable, I think. You are clearly a fast learner, and from what I have seen, you are brave. Most importantly, you are adaptable. You know when to speak out and when to be silent. You know when to integrate and when to remove yourself. There is something _Dothraki_ about being able to stand your ground and maintain your identity while also being aware of your surroundings.”

 

“You flatter me, ser.”

 

“I state what I see, _khaleesi_. If that flatters you, I can only apologise.”

 

His easy nature was contagious. She, for a moment, discarded the camp and the tent and the _khal_ , and focused her mind on home instead.

 

“Tell me of Westeros. Tell me of the houses and the lords and ladies.”

 

The sun slowly rose, dawn broke, and Daenerys listened to his low voice speak of Starks and Lannisters and marriages and kingdoms. She could have painted a picture, perhaps, with the colours in the landscape and the colours in his words. She could have been elsewhere. She could have been in a world that had a space for her that she didn’t need to carve out herself.

 

He reached out to help her stand when she decided to return to camp, but once more said nothing of the pain he so clearly read on her face. She went back to her husband before he woke, and reached for one of the books Ser Jorah had gifted her.

 

~

 

Life in the _khalasar_ was hot and intense. After weeks of feeling constantly on edge, she settled into her role as _khaleesi_ , little by little, word by word. Ser Jorah taught her the basics of Dothraki grammar, and how to interact with her people. He rode by her side and went to help her off her horse before Viserys. He ate with the Targaryens and drank with the Dothraki. Through him, she learnt to straddle two continents; become a _khaleesi_ , yet remain a princess.

 

He was there when she killed her first rabbit. It seemed the  _khal_ was eager to blood her, since she had never killed anything before, and once the traps were plundered, Ser Jorah handed her a knife and showed her where to slit its throat.

 

He trained with Viserys, and she saw the way he would slip on the backfoot, dodge too slowly, wield too lightly. A warrior made no such mistakes: Ser Jorah was being lenient with his king. Perhaps he was afraid of hurting him. Perhaps he was afraid of angering him. Perhaps it was merely his politeness.

 

He gave her balm without a word one night. She had been lying with her husband and lying to everyone else about the physical toll it was taking when she still wasn’t used to it. He pressed the jar into her hands and said nothing. It soothed the surface pain, but not the deeper ache. Nevertheless, it was a welcome relief.

 

She grew, she supposed, into her role, into a _khaleesi_ , just like he said she would. She grew to love her husband as he grew tender towards her. She learnt the Dothraki tongue, she learnt their customs; what was meaningless and what was sacred. She learnt how to preserve meat, how to find water in a desert, how to rule and how to serve, how to listen, how to inspire awe and envy and courage. She learnt more about her homeland than she had in all of her years previously, thanks to Ser Jorah’s stories and the books she read over and over again.

 

He was there at the end of Viserys. He finally allowed his mask of servitude to slip and she saw for the first time how he despised him. She wondered how long it had been since Ser Jorah stopped believing that Viserys was fit to be a king. She wondered, if it was a long time, why he had stayed at his side.

 

The answer to that question would come in time.

 

~

 

Young and pregnant, determined and admired, free of her brother and with the support of her _khal_ , Daenerys felt the abstract concept of ‘home’ closer than ever. The more she learnt and grew and swelled, the more life she took on, the smaller she felt. Home was a place she’d have to win, which meant it was never where she was. Home was a foreign land she had to return to, now that she was the rightful heir. Home wasn’t something familiar, like her silver’s saddle or her husband’s embrace or the singing of the Great Grass Sea. She knew nothing of Home; only sand and storms.

 

“Sometimes sons of particularly affluent lords are betrothed at birth.”

 

“Without a say? Perhaps I’m more Westerosi than I thought…”

 

“Your son will need no such assurance, _khaleesi._ He will be prince, and may marry who he chooses.”

 

She twisted the flax around her hand and pulled it taught to weave the fibres tighter together. This was menial work, but she liked to keep busy when her  _khal_ was not with her. Doreah fed her the string and Ser Jorah picked up the slack in a coil as they spoke. Her fingertips and knuckles, once soft and delicate, had roughened under the living conditions of the _khalasar_.

 

She would call her relationship with the knight a tentative friendship. He was loyal, very much her servant, but he was truly the only person in the _khalasar_ with whom she felt she could speak plainly, without fear of repercussion. He held a lot back, and did not push for much from her, yet she found his conversation exceptionally stimulating.

 

“Did you choose your wife, Ser Jorah?”

 

“No, _khaleesi_. I earned her, I suppose. After I was knighted I was matched with a highly-desired woman as further reward for my service in battle. She was beautiful, it was a good match for both houses, and I wasn’t attached to another, so I saw no harm in it.”

 

“Did you love her?”

 

He laughed suddenly, and a little bitterly. He didn’t meet her eye, just kept coiling the string.

 

“Perhaps. It is difficult to say. I became rather infatuated, I suppose, but it was not love. She was a cold woman, with expensive taste and a talent for manipulation. I attempted to do right by my wife, and it caused me to make the biggest mistake of my life.”

 

She had heard the rest of the story before, and found it easier to think positively of him if she ignored it.

 

“Have you any children?”

 

“No, my queen. There was almost a child, but it…” He swallowed. He looked more contemplative than disturbed. She had never seen him disturbed. “It came out as blood, after only three moons.”

 

“I am sorry to hear that.”

 

“It is in the past. Marriage, for me, is in the past. I will live for the monarch and the realm now, instead of my family, who wouldn’t have me back even if I managed to secure a pardon.”

 

She watched him for a moment. The furrow of his brow read as genuine.

 

“You are not an old man yet, Ser Jorah. There may be more in store for you.”

 

He looked up to meet her gaze amiably. He had piercing blue eyes, standing out against the sand brown backdrop of everything else in the _khalasar_ , like an oasis in a desert.

 

“I hope there is much more in store, _khaleesi_ , but not marriage. My sword is strong but my heart is rusting. Pay it no mind, I will find love and purpose in other things; more permanent, important things.”

 

She gave him his even gaze back, and then and there decided to trust him completely.

 

~

 

She doesn’t remember much from the dark time of Drogo’s deterioration.

 

She weakened as he did, refusing to leave his side despite her knight’s pleas to abandon the _khalasar_ before they turned on her. She knew no other home, no other people, and without her brother, she had no place in this foreign land. The heat made her pregnancy heavier, the smell of her husband’s flesh rotting on his still-living body made her bouts of sickness worse, and the way her people looked at her, once with awe and now like hungry hounds waiting for a meal, made her feel isolated and scared. She was _afraid_ of the people she’d come to call family.

 

“Strength is what they value. If you are not strong, then you must flee, or die. I cannot fight off a whole _khalasar_ , my queen.”

 

She wouldn’t ask him to. She didn’t ask him to. The witch’s song echoed through her skull, rattling her teeth, and her stomach split open with a pain like her child was clawing its way out of her. She tasted sand, barely able to keep her eyes open as Ser Jorah cut down Drogo’s bloodrider, barely had the space in her mind to worry for him, before he was back at her side. Sun, sand, pain, _pain_ , _pain…_

 

She was carried. She was in his arms, she thinks, her only protector, as the people cowed and murmured and cried out behind her and that celestial, terrible music hit her from the front. Into the tent, across the threshold, despite her protests. It was like sinking into a scalding bath. The oppressiveness, the heat, the fabric of Ser Jorah’s shirt in her iron grip, and the chilling singing was all she could comprehend over the agony. She felt her spine bow, her throat raw from screaming. She reached out for a mother she never knew, a husband almost gone, a brother she’d despised, a home she’d never found and a child that was killing her. All she found was Ser Jorah, holding her close and steady, carrying her into the house of death.

 

Then nothing for a while. Years, maybe.

 

Then hard rock and a fortress that swallowed her. Then the cold like she’d never experienced. She tasted salt and stone. The fortress stole the heat from her skin, the fire from her heart, and spat her out into a wasteland. She was so very tired. She couldn’t remember being so exhausted.

 

_Broken...something is missing...I want to go home…_

 

_Home is far away. Home is just over the horizon. We will get there soon, just a little while longer. Lay down, rest for now, see your children grow and serve your husband, a queen cannot rule from the wastelands._

 

_“Khaleesi…”_

 

“Ser Jorah…”

 

She got to see disbelief on his face, finally, having never seen an emotion more severe than mild concern before. It was a flash in the darkness, wide eyes and parted lips, amongst the hurricane of questions, answers just out of reach, as she obeyed her body and stepped into the flames.

 

She remembered later, cradling the children she had never expected, how she pressed her lips to his cheek. _Thank you_ , she hadn’t said. _Thank you for these days, for your swords and your words, my knight, my bear, my most devoted._ She was under no illusions of how much of her survival she owed to him. And even then, naked, alight, her blood fizzing, her eyes smouldering in her skull, her babies’ claws pinpricks upon her unmarred skin, the voices of her ancestors singing Westeros songs in her head, he looked on in awe. He fell to his knees for the first, but not the last time, before her, and whispered “blood of my blood” to her very heart.

 

~

 

 _There is no word in Dothraki for thank you_.

 

There was in the Common Tongue, though.

 

“Thank you”, she said, when he mapped out their journey through the Red Waste for her, the lands unfamiliar and her body weak. “Thank you”, she said, when he filled her flask with water first, before seeing to everyone else, before at last filling his own. “Thank you”, she whispered, when he shook her awake, dragging her from the talons of her nightmares into the equally bleak world they currently traipsed through, and “thank you”, she said again, when her nerves compromised her queenly composure and, without being prompted, he took up station at the entrance of her tent, a silent and reassuring sentinel. “Thank you”, she murmured, as he carried a child of the _khalasar_ for miles when the little thing was too weak to stand. “Thank you,” she murmured, when after much debate he agreed to end her life quickly should she face starvation in the Waste.

 

“Blood of my blood…” She said to herself. It was, therefore, her blood that had soaked the saddlebag, her blood that coated the hands of the grieving widow, her blood shed for the sake of a foreign woman and her pride.

 

“He will remain blood of your blood, even as he rides into the Night Lands.” Said Ser Jorah.

 

Dothraki life was temporary; she often forgot that. They were a territorial and yet transitory people. They felt no attachment to soil or stone, to forest or mountain, and only _Vaes Dothrak_ stood as something that might resemble a home. They were in a state of perpetual movement, propelling themselves forward with fire and screaming, bloodshed and battle pride, until they reached their paradise in death. And even then, they were still riding.

 

She had been strong, as strong as a young woman could be when barely out of girlhood, stranded in a foreign land with people to protect and a leaden ball of dread and fear in her stomach where her baby used to be. She let herself crumble a little, just round the edges.

 

“I am tired, Ser Jorah.”

 

_I must be their strength, as you are mine._

 

She thought then that if she ever woke up to him having abandoned her, she would not be able to move forward.

 

She allowed herself weakness, allowed herself to turn to him and curl into his arms. She heard his steady heartbeat and felt him stiffen in surprise. They had not sought physical comfort in one another before, but her throat was dry and her eyes were wet and she needed to be propped up, if only for a few moments. He wrapped his arms around her after careful deliberation.

 

“I know, _khaleesi_ , but we must have hope. We must always have hope. Qarth shall be before us within the week. We shall make it. And then we turn our eyes West once more. For now, rest, my queen, I will not leave your side.”

 

She felt drowsy. For all their current filthiness she had missed the touch of another more than she had realised. Her handmaidens slept wrapped around her, but she felt as if she were protecting them, and it unconsciously added even more to her load. Jorah was tall and his chest was firm. His arms were strong and his voice low and gravelly. He went some way to replacing the presence of her husband, the likes of which she had become accustomed. She pulled him to her mat, and slept soundly and selfishly against his skin. The following day he showed no signs of fatigue, although she knew he had not slept a second while he guarded her.

 

~

 

“If she was not his wife, why was he permitted to bring her in his wife’s place?”

 

Daenerys had become a woman, undeniably and permanently, within the walls of Qarth, glittering and hollow like the crown her brother used to dream of. Despite this, there were many questions with complex answers that she must ask, betraying her sheltered and isolated upbringing.

 

“She was his heart at the time, and he her purse. It is commonplace for men to take what they need and offer what they can. Who are we, a city of finery and pleasure, to deny a man his impulses and luxuries?” Said Xaro Xhoan Daxos, his permanent expression of polite yet smug contempt woven intricately into the fabric of his face.

 

Daenerys nodded out of courtesy as they climbed the stone steps of his lower courtyard. The theatre had been humid and stifling, the play long and in a language she didn’t speak. She turned to Ser Jorah when they were alone in the stairwell, the quirk of her brow reiterating her earlier question.

 

“Pleasure is a man’s right in Qarth, _khaleesi_ , and often a woman’s burden. A nobleman, or sometimes just a man of wealth, may have many mistresses. Often he will pay for their company, both at social engagements and in the bedchamber. Fidelity on the man’s part is not considered a necessity in noble Qartheen circles.”

 

She thought about the very real possibility of having to marry her host. In order to secure his wealth and influence, it would be the smartest move. She had loved her first husband, and she had been widowed, and now the tide turned in her favour. She would not be weak again. Allegiances needed to be forged in the gold of a wedding band, not just the steel of a sword.

 

“I understand.” She said, not without bitterness, as Ser Jorah escorted her to her room. Despite his exile, he was still a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and for the first time she saw this honour acknowledged by others. He was given his own chambers, had his own servants, and although he was still her first line of defence, he was no longer her first port of call when it came to domestic matters. The distance pleased her. He had proven himself more than a squire.

 

“I shall meet you tomorrow before dawn, _khaleesi_. The ritual takes place at daybreak and we must not be late if we wish to be polite. I have informed your handmaidens.”

 

“Thank you, ser. I wish you a pleasant evening.”

 

As Irri brushed the sand out of her silver hair, she considered what a ‘pleasant evening’ might hold for her knight. Though gracious and noble to her, she knew nothing of Ser Jorah’s activities outside of his servitude. She wondered if he would drink with the Qartheen as he had drunk with Drogo’s bloodriders, laughing and talking in the Dothraki’s deep native timbre. She wondered if, like the men of Qarth, he would seek out the pleasure of a woman. The idea seemed absurd, as if the fibres of his being had aligned themselves with a future disconnected from illicit company. She could sense his romantic history, but not grasp his romantic future.

 

She’d considered in the past that, when she took her throne in Westeros, she would have to marry again to secure it. She had heard tales of the Westerosi houses and wondered from which her future husband would hail. For the first time, however, she considered that perhaps she should marry Ser Jorah, and become a Mormont queen. From what her books and Ser Jorah himself had told her, his house was small but proud, remote and yet highly respected for their pragmatism and strength. _They are not grand, but they are renowned for their loyalty_ , she thought, _and I already know him, and know that he would never treat me ill_.

 

This thought, too, was absurd. He was disgraced, and not a high enough match for a Targaryen queen. He had been married before, and his exile meant he was no longer the lord of his house, not to mention that he was her most trusted advisor, her closest friend, her confidant and bloodrider, and from what she had gathered, marriage involved no such bonds. Future queens married youthful and valiant sons of powerful lords, who swept them off their feet at their first meeting and married them without having ever seen them in their weakest, most vulnerable, most embarrassing moments. Ser Jorah was too close to marry. Perhaps she would tell him these thoughts the following day, and they could laugh about it. Perhaps he would even suggest an actually viable alternative.

 

She never did bring it up. There were men with snake eyes and blue lips, flames that caught and extinguished before her skin felt their warmth, there were empty cages where her children used to sleep, and there were her dead _khalasar_ spread across Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ orchard courtyard. In the depth of the maze, with every exit covered by the same tormenter and the chirping and squirming of her children behind her, she felt true fear again, for the first time since she started losing Drogo, only this time, she had something tangible to protect. Her children wouldn’t survive without their mother, and like any mother, she realised there was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect them.

 

 _Blood of my blood. Fire and blood. Fire cannot kill a dragon_.

 

_“Dracarys.”_

 


	2. Part 2: Pariah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Chapter 2. It is the shortest one. Thank you for everyone's feedback!

“You are not fond of Daario Naharis, are you, ser?”

 

“Fondness does not factor in, I am merely wary of him, _khaleesi_.”

 

Somewhere along the road, presumably between Astapor and Meereen, the term ‘ _khaleesi’_ had stopped being a form of polite and subservient address and had started being a term of endearment; almost a nickname. There was no one in her party of former slaves, former sellswords and Ser Barristan Selmy of Westeros who truly knew what the title meant. Only Ser Jorah kept it regularly in his speech; an acknowledgement of times passed, of victories won and hardships overcome.

 

“You think him untrustworthy?”

 

“Anyone who would sell their loyalty is untrustworthy. The moment he gets bored, or feels trapped, he could flee. Sharing strategy with him seems an unnecessary risk.” His tone held more venom than his measured choice of words should have shown.

 

“He is earning nothing but my favour. We are not paying him.”

 

“He may get bored all the same, _khaleesi_.”

 

“Are you suggesting I am easy to tire of?”

 

He laughed at that a little. “Far from it, but he strikes me as a man of instant gratification. I was merely expressing concern at how long he can wait for his reward.”

 

She had thought they were having an argument, but clearly Ser Jorah had decided they were not, as he didn’t look at her, but kept his tone light and smiled wryly, like he knew something she didn’t. It irked her.

 

“His ‘ _reward’_?”

 

Ser Jorah looked at her with a raised brow. He knew she wasn’t stupid. Most of Slavers’ Bay knew that by now, but everyone from her handmaidens to Qartheen nobles had mocked her for being blind in the face of desire before.

 

She was far from it. Daenerys understood people’s immediate desire more clearly than she knew her own. She knew how long to feign ignorance in the face of the Astapor slave masters. She knew how much free rein to allow the vulgar sellswords of Yunkai. She knew what Xaro Xhoan Daxos wanted to buy, what the warlocks wanted to steal, what Drogo wanted to fuck, what her brother wanted to hear. She knew what to say to make the _khalasar_ follow her, to make the city gates open for her, to make the slaves rise up against their masters with her…

 

...and she knew _exactly_ why Daario Naharis had sided with her. He had not been subtle with his intentions. He had the brazenness of a handsome and successful man who had never been rejected. And she didn’t think, all things considered, that she would reject him either.

 

She also knew why Ser Jorah didn’t like Daario Naharis. His words on his loyalty rang true enough, but the simmering resentment could not be hidden from Daenerys. She wondered if the others saw it too.

 

_“How long has your manservant been in love with you?”_

 

Love. A strange word, and an even stranger concept. His devotion leaked out of his eyes like peach nectar. It gave her strength and stability. She refused to acknowledge it, refused to address it or even think about it, because to see it would be to admit that she knew, and that she did nothing because she sustained herself on his love, in whatever form it took.

 

A girl no longer, she had no time for foolishness. He should know that.

 

“Aye, _khaleesi_. He is a fraud, without a noble bone in his body.”

 

She halted where she stood above him in the Meereenese throne room. She turned to look down on him where he stood several steps below.

 

“You have no noble bone anymore, Ser Jorah, not by name anyway. I still trust you. We cannot base judgement on history, or else I shall solely regret allowing you into my inner circle. I value your counsel, of course, and always will, but on this matter you are dismissed. He has done a great deal for us, and we could not have freed these cities without him. The next time you criticise him, attempt to detangle your opinions from personal prejudice.”

 

He was quiet after that, his head bowed, but he didn’t look ashamed.

 

~

 

The _khalasar_ had taught her how to talk, dance and fuck like a Dothraki, and Daario Naharis obligingly taught her how to talk, dance and fuck like a Tyroshi.

 

“There is not so much touching, _khaleesi_. The Westerosi cover themselves in more clothes, and like to keep their distance in upper circles.”

 

“Even in dancing? That seems strange.”

 

“Aye, even in dancing. I used to _hate_ lessons, but it is a common practice at banquets, weddings, any celebrations really. I don’t believe my house was particularly well-known for it, however…”

 

She’d insisted he teach her, even if it was only basic steps. Ser Barristan Selmy had been kingsguard, thus was entirely out of practice. Ser Jorah was her only other option.

 

He looked uncomfortable holding her hand, despite having done it many times, to help her off her horse or escort her down stairs. He looked uncomfortable in general; reluctant to meet her eyes. His posture was stiff, but that could have been part of the dance. It was certainly different from the Essos dances she had learnt, with their free-flowing movement, liquid stance, and flexible steps; little more than an excuse to be close to someone you wished to be intimate with. Westerosi dancing seemed more like a battle formation; regimented, upright, defensive, and with precise patterns.

 

He guided her step, pulled away from her so she could curtsey to him, which made him look even more embarrassed, and then span her round, back into the open hold. It was another educational transaction, like his history books. When she tripped over her own heel on a misplaced step, she laughed, and he caught it, diffusing the tension somewhat.

 

_If Daario Naharis could see this he would laugh too_ , she had thought.

 

“In Essos it’s often a form of seduction, I believe. In Westeros, it’s usually an excuse to talk privately, more often than not about politics or business.”

 

“Do the men dance with men and the women with women?”

 

“No, not that I’ve seen. Some dances involve switching partners or splitting the company up into sexes. If the numbers aren’t balanced, I could see how it might come about.”

 

She had danced with Doreah before the great fire pit, one jubilant night in the _khalasar_. Their lithe, feminine bodies seemed to flicker and flow in perfect compatibility, like twin flames, after several cups of mare's milk to loosen Daenerys’ reservations. She thought how different that was to the dances of Westeros, the dances of her _home_ , she reminded herself.

 

“Did you dance at your wedding, Ser Jorah?”

 

She found herself caught in a game that only she was playing; how far could she probe into her knight’s history before he denied her an answer, or at least looked vaguely taken aback by the question.

 

He did neither; he merely took a beat before answering, as always, measured and even.

 

“I did, I think.”

 

“You ‘think’?”

 

“Yes, I was...um, rather drunk by the end of it, _khaleesi_.” He admitted bashfully. He wasn’t one for drinking, she’d noticed. He would partake out of politeness or tactically to forge bonds, but generally liked to keep a clear head. She smiled in amusement.

 

“I understand that to be a custom as well.”

 

“Often, yes.”

 

“I don’t understand this sequence.” She admitted, after the fourth time repeating the steps.

 

“It is one of the more complex, _khaleesi_. Besides, there is usually more people. It is difficult to teach with just two.” He released her hand and took a step away from her. Voicing it seemed to remind him that they were alone, as they rarely were during those days of ruling the newly-freed cities. She caught his realisation, and instead of dragging Missandei, or Ser Barristan, or even more amusingly Grey Worm in to assist, she decided to cover more ground.

 

“Then perhaps you could teach me a dance that only involves two people? I may need that in ‘negotiations’ to come.”

 

“If that is what you wish, _khaleesi_ , but I really am not much of a dancer.”

 

“You’ve done admirably so far, ser, especially considering how out of practice you are.” She said warmly. He squinted at her in amusement, trying to gauge if she was mocking him or not.

 

“Very well.” He sighed. He straightened his posture before approaching her again. The flash of hesitation across his face when he reached for her hand, and then her waist, amused her. How long had they known each other now? He knew his place after she had reminded him of it in Qarth, but really, there was no need for him to be so cautious when she had openly asked.

 

“I always thought dancing was like learning to sword fight, but a lot scarier.”

 

She slipped into his hold and followed where he led, focusing on not catching her dress on his tunic, or her jewellery, or her own legs. She laughed, still.

 

“Why scarier?”

 

“More things could go wrong.”

 

“Perhaps I should learn to sword fight.”

 

“I really don’t think I’m the best person for that.”

 

“You have too many important duties to become my tutor, although it’s beginning to resemble such an arrangement.”

 

“On your own request, _khaleesi_.”

 

“Well, you didn’t put up much of a fight.”

 

“I do as you command.”

 

“Well I _command_ you to relax your grasp, you shall give me bruises, ser.”

 

She smirked and raised an eyebrow. His eyes widened.

 

“I can only apologise, _khaleesi._  I warned you it isn’t my strong suit.”

 

She placed her hand over his on her waist and forced his fingers to relax. They swayed where they stood in the open and airy atrium to her chamber. Once they’d got used to the hold, the dance flowed more smoothly.

 

“This isn’t too difficult!” She announced at a pitch that perhaps wasn’t queenly.

 

“This is a simple dance. I cannot offer any more challenging alternatives, I’m afraid.”

 

“You’re lighter on your feet without your armour.”

 

“Are you critiquing my swordsmanship now?”

 

“Of course not. Although, perhaps if you’d focused more in dance lessons, I wouldn’t have had to sew your side back together after you battled Qotho.”

 

“Duly noted, _khaleesi_.”

 

_How had they got to the point where they could jest about that period of their lives, so filled with blood and despair?_

 

She realised that these were probably the steps he’d walked his wife through at their wedding. It wasn’t sultry, but there was something romantic in it. The thought made her smile instead of blush.

 

A familiar wave of fondness swept over her, as it sometimes did in these gentle moments between them. She valued his strength and his advice, but also his friendship, and sometimes that was easy to forget in all the politics. They were so rarely alone these days, and she had to admit that she had a hand in that fact. Occasionally the way he looked at her would make her feel like she was drowning, like a single glance could send her back to a time when she wasn’t admired and adored by many, but instead was a frightened girl with no idea of what to do with a look that full of feeling.

 

She wasn’t scared of the look now, though, as he valiantly battled it down, staring resolutely at their feet as they moved across the stone. She was a queen now, a woman now. She felt reassured in his hold, almost powerful, as he had a miraculous ability to raise her to the position of a deity without diminishing his own status.

 

When she forced his gaze back to hers by lifting his chin, she immediately regretted it. His unguarded eyes were like smouldering ice, smudged round the edges and restricted by pale eyelashes, but somehow still overflowing into the rest of his face. He had not had time to school his expression as they danced. Daario Naharis was so certain of his own charm that she could barely see his actual interest in her until they were unclothed and entwined in her bed, almost by accident. Days and days spent with Ser Jorah meant that every tiny change, every slight emotion crossing his face, was for her huge and impossible to ignore.

 

He swallowed. She held his gaze, half-challenging, half-trapped. His eyes flicked down to her mouth, closer that she’d been aware of moving, and only for a second. Her heart surprised her by skipping a beat.

 

_This isn’t how it is supposed to be…_

 

Or maybe, just for now, it was.

 

She wasn’t about to make a habit of crossing boundaries with her advisors, but all the same she leaned closer, willing to let the atmosphere push her gently towards his lips. He moved out of her reach.

 

“I-it…uh, it is traditionally danced at weddings, between newly-weds. I suppose that much might be obvious. I can only apologise-“

 

So she had been right. Maybe that look wasn’t for her, then, and perhaps he was thinking of the wife he’d once had. He was looking at her with regulated intensity, and the feeling in her chest hadn’t quite gone away.

 

She’d read the Westerosi stories he’d given her about handsome knights who charmed their princesses into submission. She was not about to submit to anyone, but she could see similarities between the knights in the stories and her Ser Jorah. That was perhaps the excuse she would fall back on later.

 

She didn’t let him pull himself out of her grasp and instead reached up to kiss him. Even as shock froze him solid, he was not frigid against her. Even caught completely off guard, he was pliant under her touch. It was a selfish, cruel gesture on her part, born of a desire to feel a moment of solace, of affirmation, in the world she’d built by destroying a hierarchy only to build another. He held her gently, but securely, not grasping onto her but not afraid either. His beard was rough and his lips were soft. She thought, after so long, after so many battles and near misses and desolation and triumph, they deserved this. They both deserved this.

 

She pulled back after a few moments of contact. She would not allow herself to get carried away. She saw the gratitude and affection shine in his unguarded eyes, before they flashed clear again. He understood that this was water in the Red Waste; a brief pocket of mutual peace that was not to be spoken of, and was not to change their relationship whatsoever.

 

“Forgive me, _khaleesi_.” He said, like it was his fault. After she dismissed him, she considered if he was to blame after all.

 

~

 

She doesn’t remember much, just that she was protected and he was alone, below her, scared for the first time since they’d met. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t _bear_ to see the truth and shame and love she knew she’d find in his expression, so instead she tilted up her chin, straightened her back, addressed him like the queen he had helped her become.

 

“ _Khaleesi-“_

 

“Don’t call me that. Did you tell them I was carrying Drogo’s child?”

 

The white hot rage, the fire that had started as a deep swoop of dread and boiled and boiled over into betrayal and fury, had dissipated enough for her to see clearly. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the stone of the pyramid, _through_ it to the bustling free city full of people whose lives she was responsible for, across the gates into the huge wide, golden world of ex-slavers and ex-slaves; countless lives that she couldn’t have liberated without his help, and that she almost wasn’t able to because of his treachery. Her voice was steady, her gaze dry, for the most part, and her words even. The stone in her throat was hidden well; this was more than just her personal trust; she held the weight of a dynasty on her shoulders, and could not abide traitors.

 

He’d never raised his voice to her, but he did now. He was desperate, and so she must appear not to be. And he dared to use the word _‘love’_ as if that wouldn’t make the wounds infinitely deeper, as if that would help his case rather than completely eradicate it. Tears surfaced, but she would not be overcome like the women in his books.

 

“Love?! _‘Love_ ’, how can you say that to me?!”

 

She should kill him. To see Ser Barristan’s sword streaked with his blood, to throw his broken corpse into the sea, or watch the dragons he’d fought to protect roast it and rip it to pieces; perhaps these things would be a balm for her pain. Perhaps they would bring her peace of mind, confidence that no one would ever do it again, or perhaps it would teach her never to let anyone too close, never to trust a single person’s council over others’, never to expect kindness from men because they always had an ulterior motive. Perhaps to die by her command would set him free. Perhaps she should wield the knife herself.

 

She couldn’t. For all her strength, all her fury, all her still and glossy surfaces, she knew she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t watch him die any more than she could look him in the eyes as she passed sentence. She must be rid of him, but her heart was worn and weary from years in his presence.

 

She would never be so weak again.

 

So she banished him.

 

_“Go.”_

 

He didn’t look back. And neither did she.

 


	3. Part 3: Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go after this! Thank you for everyone's feedback, it's great to hear what you think. The next chapter will veer from canon most notably, and will be the reason for the rating. And no, as much as I am entirely unconvinced by their relationship, I will not completely disregard Jon Snow. But he is very much not the focus.

And then she barely thought of him.

She would love to claim that her heart lamented his absence every day, that her life was infinitely more difficult and her soul was heavy and regretful. However, Daenerys was a queen, a _dragon_ , and she must rule without distraction, so she did as was her nature. The most important thing to her was her people, and just beyond them, just over the horizon, the Iron Throne. Her campaign grew, her advisors advised, and her rule continued. If, occasionally, she turned to her left shoulder during a council meeting, mouth open, ready to ask his opinion, then she was simply being betrayed by muscle memory; old habits die hard, and turning to Ser Jorah for advice seemed like a very old habit.

She wrestled with unrest in her own city, festering and writhing below the very pyramid in which she sat, but watched her new world with pride nevertheless. He had cautioned her once against rashness, and she fought valiantly to heed this ghost council as the fury of the dragon told her to _burn everyone that would see a fellow man in chains, burn everyone who would rise up against the rightful and just queen_.

Then Ser Barristan was dead. Grey Worm was hurt. She was to wed a man who was clearly torn between fear, resentment and an overwhelming relief at not being her dragons’ next meal. And she still had no idea where Drogon was.

And then he struck down dozens of men bigger and younger than himself, without killing any of them, to offer himself up for slaughter before her platform.

 _To kill him would be kinder_ , she thought, with a jolt of realisation, as she looked at a face she hadn’t seen in many moons with a practised and cold detachment.

Tyrion Lannister almost convinced her. _Almost_. Maybe, despite what every sense in her body was screaming, she wanted him back. She was almost willing to allow his return to her service using the excuse of Tyrion’s suggestion, but he made no such suggestion, and thus her head won once more. She sent him away again, drinking in his haggard appearance, because although she hadn’t fully believed it last time when she told herself she’d never see him again, she believed it this time. He was tired and desperate and heartbroken, and _to kill him would be kinder_ , but she still couldn’t, still _wouldn’t_ , and she sighed with relief once he was gone, knowing the threat of him was no longer within her inner walls.

 

~

 

She dreamt of him. Once. Her nights were frequently sleepless, the weight of reigning she suspected, but she drifted into the familiar cold wash of a nightmare and found Ser Jorah Mormont.

 

He was frozen in ice, eyes closed, his expression troubled. He held a quill in one hand, suspended above a scroll of parchment, but she couldn’t make out the words written there. The pressure of his grip had caused the pen to break, and black ink dripped steadily between his fingers. The nightmare was noisy, the lofty room she was in full of distractions and movement, but she remembered turning her eyes back to him and seeing his own flick open to meet hers. They were not soft but guarded as they usually were when turned on his queen, but sharp and ferocious. She watched as his blue irises burst and flooded the white around them with ice, which then leaked over hollowed cheeks and unkempt stubble, leeching any remaining colour from his body until he was a corpse with icicles for eyes. She woke up suddenly, with dread heavy on her heaving chest and a cold sweat like a layer of snow between her nightdress and her skin.

 

That was the only night she allowed herself to will her mind back to repose by thinking of him, imagining she was back in a drafty tent in a hopeless wasteland, wrapped in sturdy arms that would stay awake to watch her all night.

 

~

 

_“What do you dream of, Ser Jorah?”_

 

_“Home.”_

 

_“What do you want?!”_

 

_“...To see you on the Iron Throne.”_

 

_“Please leave me. Not you, Jorah.”_

 

She’d released him, finally and dishonorably, _twice_ , but he had his pardon. He could go home. He _should_ go home. That is what he had preached while by her side. That is what they had both longed for. To go back to a homeland full of enemies the only way they could; by conquering it. She thought of the way he’d clean his clothes when they were on the move, always ending on the breastplate of the armour she’d had made for him, drawing a thin rag through the divots and crevices of the bear sigil engraved there, carefully polishing away the sand. She wondered if he knew she’d noticed. He was never a vain man, but he wore his house across his chest, introduced himself as ‘Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island’, talked for hours on her request about his country, and showed limitless regret at past actions that led to his exile.

 

He was a Mormont, and Mormonts were proud and loyal to their house. They belonged in the North, with their people, and would always submit to the pull to return eventually.

 

So why was he still here?

 

Looking up at her again, bloody, imploring... _his blood or their blood...what is he doing?_

 

Her stomach was sick with nerves she wouldn’t show. She had to admit that she hadn’t wanted to kill him. She’d hoped that someone else, in the huge horrible world, would do the job for her, but instead she’d spent the last few awful minutes wondering if she’d see the colour of his insides after all. The fear brought a certain emotional clarity, like seeing herself in Viserys’ eyes and realising for the first time that she was beautiful.

 

But he’d won, of course. What he lacked in finesse and fluidity he made up for in brute force and an almost terrifying sense of purpose. _My stubborn bear_ , she’d used to think when they argued. His stubbornness would be the death of him, she was certain.

 

But not today.

 

Not by her hand.

 

When the spear hummed pass her ear and crunched sickeningly into the chest of the attacker behind her, when the wall of brief serenity she’d constructed crumbled around her and her people screamed, when she was so disoriented in the chaos she didn’t notice that he’d vaulted up onto the platform beside her, when he’d extended a hand and she’d taken it, she knew, in the core of her, that she had forgiven him.

 

~

 

“So I can’t take you back, and I can’t send you away.”

 

“You must send me away.”

 

_Did he really think it would be that easy?_

 

The _dosh khaleen_ had spent their widowed lives crouched in the darkness, swathed in too much fabric, praying and whispering and watching, peering out between the hard edges of their  _khals’_ legacy, dormant women never to erupt, some simmering, some frothing, some praying for permanent rest, some content to be invisible. They had given Daenerys horsehair and mare’s milk and dried stallion meat; they were becoming the beasts their people mounted, as prophesied; little more than mute slaves. It was as if she’d gone backwards in time, to a world where her fire had been extinguished early, where her bloodriders had been less loyal, where her dragon eggs had really been petrified, where Ser Jorah was not there to protect her, and she had been swallowed into the world of leather, smoke and dried blood that was the untouched underside of Dothraki culture.

 

She wasn’t a horse, but a dragon. She had once more escaped in the blaze, and once more had an army. She’d been taught that most women were followers, but she understood after all these years that it was simply that most women were never given the chance to rule.

 

She peered closer at the cracked skin. It was as if he had caked himself in mud and let it dry. No, it was worse than that. It was easily-missed but now she looked, the malevolence in the skin of his forearm reached out to her in tendrils, gripping her and drawing her closer. She stayed planted firmly where she was. She knew little of the disease, but seeing it seemed to somehow give her an understanding of its graveness. The way it crawled across his skin, more repulsive in the centre and feathering out malignantly at the edges, made her itch. _Infectious..._

 

_He’s dead. My bear is dead man walking, and it’s my fault._

 

He seemed to hold no malice for the disease that would leech his life away, nor his seemingly cursed nature that meant he always tripped just before the gates. He’d been ridiculed and rejected, sold as a slave and forced to fight, rejected again and now he would complete his wretched life by turning slowly to stone. However, he did not appear bitter. He just observed her calmly, across the heavy, hot air, with the gentle expression she’d known since her first day as _khaleesi_ , the expression that would no doubt crack and crumble under the illness without her there to see it.

 

It was a wonder he retained any affection, any kindness or dignity, and yet somehow he did. He wouldn’t hear her apologise. He smiled, which he did infrequently, and his blue eyes shone with bittersweet amusement. His composure only faltered when he told her he loved her, which once more unsettled something huge and heavy in her chest and made her ache a little, even though she already knew. He must have known that she had forgiven him, because the calm and resolute way he spoke, from the depth of his soul, told of relief and not desperation.

 

“Goodbye, _khaleesi_.”

 

_Did he really think it would be that easy?_

 

“Do not walk away from your queen, Jorah the Andal. You have not been dismissed.”

 

Betrayed by the break in her voice, the crack in her composure, she let him see her grief. She would not have him die without knowing... _without knowing what?_

 

She would not let him die.

 

“I command you to heal yourself.”

 

He would never disregard a direct order. Maybe the impossible was possible. Maybe she could cheat death on a technicality.

 

“When I take the Seven Kingdoms, I need you by my side.” She admitted. She had never considered an alternative. There was no version of her who fought for the homeland she had never known without him. It was incomprehensible.

 

He looked hopeful. That’s what they did; they gave each other hope, be it real or false. He’d give her books that spoke of her future, or at least a balm to ease the surface pain. She took time to memorise his features, lest the unthinkable happened, and allowed herself to admit how much she’d missed him. Who knew what state he would be in if she ever saw him again. She looked at the strips of fabric he’d wrap round his wrists and knuckles to stop the hilt of his sword from slipping, the way he stood with his weight over one hip, his straight spine and broad chest, the scar running down the left side of his neck, his strong jaw shadowed by stubble, his handsome face lined by age and weather, and eyes she’d always thought were deep and kind. She’d never met a man like him. She wondered if there were any in Westeros.

 

And once again he was gone from her, although this time he took a bit of her heart with him. This time, she silently, abashedly, almost subconsciously begged the gods that she would see him again.

 

~

 

Her world opened up. The ground rushed below her, cast into shadow by the wings of her children as she rode on their backs. They grew bigger without showing any signs of slowing. Where they used to be smooth and fleshy they were now hard as stone beneath her hands. Once wild and unruly they now understood how desperately she needed them. They filled the endless sky, stretching and screeching, scorching the might and wonder of their very existence onto the cowering earth below. Daenerys had prided herself on her ability to keep a level head when it came to listening to her advisors and exercising power, but as she sat astride one of her children, watching her enemies shrink in terror at the raw burst of supernatural force that was dragonfire, she could perhaps understand why madness was said to be a Targaryen trait.

 

Then there was a lion and a spider and a couple of kraken. Then she was _finally_ home. And it was cold and empty.

 

The country was beautiful. The allies Ser Barristan said would come came after all. She sat in the seat of her ancestors and wondered when everything was going to feel complete. This wasn’t the right throne. There was no time to ponder on the world she’d left behind with a man who loved her but she couldn’t _quite_ love back. There was no time to consider the notches and scratches of the journey it had taken to get her to that bitter and windswept beach, feeling her land between her fingertips for the first time. There was no time to consider the fact that she wouldn’t have an heir, or worry about giving the Greyjoys one of her seven kingdoms, or miss Jorah Mormont. Her eyes were on Cersei Lannister, sitting in King's Landing, ruling yet shackled to the capital, and the only point of focus Daenerys could entertain.

 

Until Jon Snow arrived, that is.

 

 _Death is the enemy. Winter is the enemy_ …

 

And Jon Snow seemed to be a convenient mixture of the two.

 

Alliances were needed, however, and the North was a force not to be taken lightly. Tyrion had proven himself several times over, so if he vouched for Jon then she would take that into account. So, Missandei curled her hair perfectly and she made sure to always stand far enough away that she was not overly familiar, but near enough that he could get a good look at the beauty of the last Targaryen.

 

“My dragons seem at ease around you.”

 

“The better for me, I’d imagine. They’re a bit terrifying. But magnificent, of course magnificent.”

 

“Have you any experience with such beasts?”

 

“I...I suppose, I have a direwolf.”

 

“A...direwolf?”

 

Jon Snow looked at her over the rim of his goblet. The low lighting of the fire in the hearth brought out the brown and copper tones in his otherwise black hair.

 

“Aye. They’re like regular wolves but much bigger, and more intelligent. They are the sigil of my father’s house. My house now, I suppose.”

 

“Ah, of course. I wasn’t aware they still walked the earth.”

 

“They were stuff of legend until not long ago.”

 

She raised an amused eyebrow. The irony of their parallel circumstances didn’t seem to be lost on him either. He offered a small smirk and returned to his meal. The near-constant draft that slithered its way through Dragonstone’s many corridors and crevices caused the candles to flicker.

 

She liked Jon, despite everything. He seemed aged beyond his years, and seen as he’d claimed to have seen Death walking, it was perhaps appropriate. He was a solitary and sombre man, barely out of boyhood, but grave and weathered by a host of experiences she wasn’t sure she wanted the details of. He was broodingly handsome, charmingly humble, subtly strong; not exactly as she’d pictured the King in the North, but not all disappointing either. She was, however, a little let down at his conversation. The permanent crease of his brow meant that speaking pleasantly, personally, candidly, felt uncomfortable and unnatural, as if every little communication that passed between them was inherently political, rather than genuine. Either he lacked the certain spark she’d become accustomed to in the company she’d kept in Essos, or it was buried deep down under layers and layers of wolf pelt and pale skin.

 

He was a solid, wary presence. A Westerosi through and through, and there was something compelling in his quiet strength of character. When he saw her to her room out of politeness, she fought back a blush at thoughts that rose unbidden when she considered inviting him in.

 

Their aims had seemed incompatible, but now, more and more, she felt that they would ultimately be allies.

 

~

 

She remembered feeling something, after a long time of feeling little, when he removed his helmet in the Meereen fighting pits and she realised who had won the tournament. It was not a pleasant feeling, not wholly, more like the swooping of her stomach when Drogon dropped a few yards in the air without alerting her; a rush of happy adrenaline at the shock. Then came a flickering, burning resentment and distaste. It _wasn’t pleasant_ , but she was grateful for the jolt nevertheless, in the tangle of tedious and dangerous politics she had been playing for months.

 

It felt the same the second time, but dimmed. Her fury had ebbed, but her resentment had grown.

 

_How dare he. Who does he think he is, disobeying a direct order from his queen?_

 

She thought that he must have read it on her face, he must have seen through her near-perfect mask of indifference, that she was going to let him live. The second time she expelled him from the city, they both knew, along with her remaining council, that she was not going to kill him.

 

The third time he came back to her, the feeling reared its head again, only this time with more force, more swiftness, and more light.

 

They were suddenly in the Red Waste again, her lips cracked and dry, her eyelids heavy, her spirit almost smothered, and he pulled himself to his feet and suggested they keep moving. _So often my strength_.

 

And her heart leapt into her mouth at the thought; _if he is back, then I am no longer in danger. If he is back, then he is no longer in danger. If he is back, then he has been cured._

 

“You look strong.”

 

He did. He looked taller, more upright, more proud and more steady than she remembered him. There was flesh on his face and colour in his cheeks, but she couldn’t be sure how much was a real change and how much was her happiness playing tricks on her.

 

Of course she’d have him back. Of _course_ she would forgive him, even though she had sworn she would not. She embraced him and felt at peace, a deep relief washing over her like she was _safe_ again. And she forgave him.

 

~

 

“Show me.” She said, later.

 

She had taken dinner with him in her private chambers, hardly caring to restrain her interest at his journey away from her. He calmly told his tale, and she _had_ missed his low voice so, and was perfectly content to sit and listen with mild horror at what he had endured.

 

He seemed remarkably unchanged. She imagined she must seem very changed. He had once praised her for her gentle parts, and there were so few of those left, hardened by the cold homeland she’d landed on, roughened by the realities of Westerosi politics.

 

Still, they talked in soft, warm tones, and he practically glowed under her attention, and after several cups of wine, they were laughing again, as they once had, like old friends, which they were.

 

He’d had the flesh cut from his body. He hadn’t elaborated on how much of him the greyscale had infected, but he’d said it took a whole night. A cowardly and vicious disease, it ate away at its host, growing more and more painful and difficult to ignore, taking the body and the mind with it. She had no idea how quickly it could progress.

 

“Show me.” She commanded.

 

He hesitated, his eyes narrowed.

 

“It is far from a pretty sight, _khaleesi_.”

 

“My knight has suffered terribly. I would see the evidence.”

 

She had to see it. She had to know what he had given to get back to her, and the voice in the back of her head said she needed to confirm it was done with.

 

He sighed deeply and removed his cloak and scabbard, and she understood that he didn’t _want_ to show her. She didn’t believe he was trying to protect her sensibilities, he knew she had seen far worse, but perhaps he thought his scars a weakness? _This is no time to be vain, my bear_.

 

In pulling off his tunic, the lighter covering of his undershirt already showed flashes of scarring along his collarbone and up his arm. He moved freely, as if without pain, but Daenerys knew if he felt pain he would hide it from her anyway. He rolled up his sleeve to show her the skin there, echoing when he had done the same thing to the same arm on an outcrop outside Vaes Dothrak.

 

There was no greyscale cracking his skin, but rather a taught, shiny layer of uneven flesh crawling up his arm, worse in some places, lighter in others; scar tissue. She’d seen scars before, and she’d seen plenty of burnt flesh, and this was somewhere in the middle. It looked raw and misshapen, but not hideous. The signs of healing could never be hideous.

 

She realised he was watching her for a reaction as if she was finished with him.

 

“The shirt too, Ser Jorah.”

 

Once more he looked uncomfortable, but dutifully loosened the ties of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He sat forward in his chair so she could examine the damage better. Most of the left side of his chest was covered by scar tissue, spreading all the way down his arm and over his shoulder to his neck. She stood and moved behind him, confirming that it had reached his down shoulder blade as well. She swallowed, and touched her fingertips to his back without thinking. She felt him tense, felt his shallow gasp, as she did so.

 

“It must have been agony.”

 

“It was long and unpleasant, yes. The Tarly boy risked a great deal. I couldn’t scream lest we be discovered.”

 

She ran the pad of her finger down a few inches, feeling a dent in his skin where the knife had gone in too deep. He still hadn’t relaxed.

 

 _Always cruel_.

 

She placed her palm against his shoulder blade, felt his muscles sliding under the scarred skin as he shifted nervously. She could touch him again and it wouldn’t kill her. She wondered if it could kill him.

 

“ _Khaleesi_...I am...I cannot express how-”

 

She moved back so she was before him again. He looked up at her from his seated position. She gave him a warm smile to banish the liquid guilt flooding his eyes.

 

“All is forgiven. You broke my heart with your betrayal, but I am under no doubt that that is behind you. _This_ …” She took a shuddering breath and traced his scarred collarbone with her fingers.

 

“This proves it, as far as I am concerned. This ordeal should have given you new life, new purpose, a fresh start in your homeland and a new drive to return home and claim your legacy. You survived something that most die from, and yet you willingly came back to the person who had wanted you dead. You returned to me, who has shown you nothing but scorn and dismissal, after everything you suffered. This has convinced me that you are loyal. I gratefully welcome you back into my service. You again saved my life, and then your own for me, and so I forgive you.”

 

She didn’t think she’d ever seen so much emotion on his face, like an endless winter had cracked open and the sun shone through, bathing his face in warmth and light. There was so much adoration in his joyful expression, despite his clear attempt to stifle it somewhat, that she wanted to avert her eyes. But she wouldn’t. She would see it, and acknowledge it, if only for a few seconds. That is what he deserved.

 

“I have no life but you. You have given my existence purpose. I would always return to you _,_ I _will_ always return to you, and I vow to never stray from you again, never leave you again, and of course _never_ betray you again. You are my queen, and although I do not deserve your mercy, I accept it, for it is all I need to keep going.”

 

She smiled too, reflecting his warmth, and gripped his shoulder reassuringly. She spread her other hand open in an invitation, which he accepted, as he took it in his own and held it firmly. For a moment she wanted to hold him closer, to affirm that he really was here and healthy and _hers_ , but she would not. She would not break his heart again.

 

They talked long into the night. His tone shifted only subtly when discussing Jon Snow, but she noticed it, of course. She applauded his restraint; his disapproval and dismay at her relationship with Daario had never been so carefully hidden. He must, too, have understood that they needed Jon Snow, that _she_ needed Jon Snow, in whatever capacity.

 

“I will see you tomorrow at our morning briefing, ser. I bid you goodnight.”

 

The morning was fast approaching, but he didn’t look the slightest bit tired. He smiled down at her and bowed before heading for the door.

 

“Goodnight, _khaleesi_.”

 

“Ser Jorah?”

 

“Aye?”

 

“I am so very glad you are back. I would never let Tyrion know, but I need you now more than ever.”

 

“It is an honour to serve you again. I promise I shall not disappoint you.”


	4. Part 4: Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter. Sorry if people were expecting something happier, but I really did mean this as a posthumous reflection on their relationship, and not an attempt to fix the dumpster fire that was Season 8. I really hated what they did with Daenerys, but this wasn't meant to be an attempt at rectifying her character assassination, so the ending is short because I didn't want to write too much sad stuff, and I tried to make it somewhat plausible that she'd go mad, but I didn't push it too far. I'm not about to try and write D&D's mistakes into plausible canon for them.
> 
> Thank you for reading this x

After nights of fretting and pacing like a war wife, she received news of the situation beyond the Wall. She wouldn’t hear Tyrion’s caution. She knew the risks, but she knew what she risked in losses if she abandoned the group.

 

_A stupid, proud child, who let her most valuable Northern ally, her most world-wise smuggler-turned-advisor and her oldest friend embark on a suicide mission._

 

She would get them back, no matter the cost.

 

And it was a high price.

 

“ _Khaleesi._ ”

 

“Leave me.”

 

“It is my duty to see that you eat.”

 

She remembered the way her heart had sang, the way her skin had fizzed and those familiar songs in her head, the songs of her ancestors, had become so loud, when they'd found Jon Snow. He was on the brink of death, but once again he defied it, and she had sat with him, watching his earnest proclamation of loyalty, his desperate gratitude, the wonder she had been accustomed to, and the personal respect she was not quite used to, cross his features. He’d fallen asleep as she held his hand, and she had retreated to her own chambers to cry.

 

Ser Jorah limped. He was hurt, but all she could feel was this _emptiness_. She stared out of the window of her cabin. Her soul’s song, usually so loud and sure, was so muted she thought she might collapse in on herself in its absence. She felt inexplicably guilty at the fact that this pain was deeper, greater, graver than that which she’d felt for her human child.

 

He had been scared. In his last minutes, he had been so scared. She’d felt the spear through her own breast, piercing her own soul, spreading the cold like frostbite across her own skin.

 

“ _Leave me_ , Jorah.”

 

Dragons felt no fear. Death didn’t hold a candle. What was ice to fire? And yet death had shot him out of the sky, ended his song, stopped his heart. Her child, her baby, she couldn’t protect him, and for what?! These humans meant nothing, _nothing_ , compared to her dragon, her prodigal child, the stuff of legend, her fire made flesh, her sigil, her destiny, her baby, her _baby_ …

 

His hand was upon her upper arm, his grip steadfast and unmoving, his insistence aggravating, constant, _predictable_ , permanent, so _so_ permanent…

 

She hadn’t realised she was crying, but she was; loud, ugly sobbing, _most undignified_ , weak and pathetic, _mother’s tears, woman’s tears_ , and she couldn’t stop.

 

She gritted her teeth. She would tear out his jugular and throw him overboard for his insubordination. She would feed him to the only things in this world that mattered; her remaining children, her _two_ children. She would silence him and his words and his understanding. How dare he presume to know her? To feel her pain?

 

She turned so fast her hair fanned out behind her, and buried her face in his chest, throwing herself into his embrace.

 

He held her without hesitation. Once, years ago, worlds ago, he would have held back for a few moments, but not now, not now all pretence was gone. They knew each other, fully, and so they must stare each other’s feelings in the face now.

 

“He died screaming, Jorah.” She managed, more to herself than him, gripping his tunic, burying herself in his smell that was familiar, and after all these years meant not only safety, but stability, consistency, and dare she say _home_. Home was her dragons, her Unsullied, the tongue her Dothraki spoke, the stretch marks on her belly and the fire in her gut, Ser Barristan’s advice, Grey Worm’s name, the scars on Missandei’s back and across Jorah Mormont’s chest, his scent, under blood and leather and sweat and Qartheen perfume and Meereen cloth and Westerosi furs, the scent that could never be fully eradicated. So she buried into it.

 

“He died protecting his mother, as he would have wanted, as any child would want. He died knowing that his actions would keep you safe.”

 

“Are you saying I should be happy?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

His hand cradled the back of her head, his other tracing soothing circles on her lower back, and she screwed her eyes shut and pushed herself as close to him as possible, as if by leeching his strength she could become stronger herself.

 

He held her as she cried. For hours, he held her. She knew that there was no one she would trust to see her like this, not in this new world of suspicious eyes that sought out weakness in her. She grew weary, swaying where she stood, and soon his iron grip was all that was keeping her up. It had been two days, and she hadn’t slept a wink, and now her eyes were spent from crying, they lowered in a bid for repose.

 

“Rest, _khaleesi_ , and we shall face the dawn with new determination, I guarantee it.”

 

His voice was full of emotion. She wondered, perhaps, if he’d expected never to see her again. They should have learnt, by now, that he would always find his way back to her. She tilted her face to look at him. He was so much older than Jon Snow, a great deal less politically important, and with a history of disgrace instead of honour following him. His eyes were sad, mourning a creature he had helped raise and its mother, who was more distraught than he had ever seen her. She pulled him down to her level so she could reach his lips. She thought the pull to his lips was like the tide; constant, ebbing and flowing, without a forward drive or a beginning or an end, but persistent and quiet and inevitable, not like the fire of Daario or the slowly creeping winter of Jon, but something in the middle, something safe and predictable…

 

Something always out of reach…

 

He took both of her hands in his and moved out of her trajectory.

 

“Please, _khaleesi_ …”

 

And when he asked with such obvious pain, such obvious longing, how could she refuse?

 

She moved away and regained what little queenly composure she could muster.

 

“I apologise. I’m...I’m…”

 

“I understand.”

 

He waited to be dismissed, until she started to remove her clothes to get ready for bed, when he turned and headed for the door.

 

“Stay, Jorah. Please.”

 

She wished her command had come out imposing. Instead, it was desperate, as his had once been. He halted.

 

She climbed into her bed and stared at him expectantly, her eyes wide and wet. He swallowed and steeled himself, before following her silent order and removing his own outer clothing. He lay on top of the covers, as she curled up underneath them, and let her rest against his side, her voiceless tears dampening the shoulder of his shirt. She fell asleep, he imagined, after being claimed by sheer exhaustion. Despite her experience and power, she was still so young, and he had to remember this.

 

Once more, he didn’t leave, but spent the whole night guarding her as she dreamed of golden scales and fields of ice.

 

~

 

She had thought facing starvation, execution, abandonment and prostitution had been the most vulnerable she could feel. She had thought that, after so many dips into despair, she knew what it felt like to be alone, to be cornered, and to face defeat. Yet somehow, none of it had prepared her for Westeros politics.

 

She was surrounded on all sides by people that didn’t know her and didn’t trust her. So why should she know or trust them? She was losing allies fast, and her grip on the crown with it, so falling into bed with Jon Snow felt not just personally gratifying, but tactically pertinent.

 

No, she didn’t fall. She stepped, like the first thrilling step onto a lake of ice.

 

She felt as if she’d known him her whole life, as if the home she’d been searching for was just his shadow in the corner of her eye. She wondered at fire and ice; mutually assured destruction, but would he melt first, or would she be doused? The way they tangled together, the way he kissed her like it was killing him and held her like he loved her; none of it felt like a struggle between opposites. It wasn’t a fight, it was a dance. A wolf and a dragon had sized each other up and deemed each other worthy, and now they succumbed to passion to reaffirm that they were both human. She felt lust, _pleasure_ , sensations long denied, abandoned within the walls of Meereen along with Daario Naharis and smothered by a pillow along with Khal Drogo.

 

_To feel...to have the luxury of feeling…_

 

_Is this my ‘gentle heart’? Was ‘gentle’ always fuelled by such fire? Will I ever be gentle again?_

 

Perhaps she had fallen in love without realising. Perhaps it had snuck up on her like Winter until she was surrounded by it. Was love supposed to encompass you? Was love supposed to make you feel secure by making you feel trapped?

 

She slipped from under the fur coverings and Jon’s arms to move closer to the fire. She stoked the embers, adding more wood, and waited until they reached the North.

 

~

 

Jon’s love wasn’t enough. Her _khalasar_ and her Unsullied and her Second Sons were not enough. Missandei’s friendship, Grey Worm’s devotion, Tyrion’s council and Varys’ wisdom was not enough. Jorah’s love wasn’t enough. Her children weren’t even enough, not when faced with the frigid faces of thousands of Winterfell’s people, who wanted a Northern king, not a Targaryen queen.

 

Sansa Stark was a force to be reckoned with. She was a little girl playing queen, and playing it so well that it had stopped being a game. Jon had told her that his sister had pulled herself out of the wreckage more than once, usually as the sole survivor, with scars deeper than skin and hardness where her innocence used to be. Their mutual suspicion didn’t surprise Daenerys in the slightest; they were too alike to trust each other.

 

Sansa Stark wasn’t stupid. Sansa Stark was a Northern noble. Sansa Stark was loved by her people. Sansa Stark did not like her.

 

Sansa Stark was a problem for after the war against the Dead. Everything was a problem for after the war against the Dead.

 

Cersei’s army wasn’t coming. She had broken her word, so why should Daenerys trust her twin? She was outvoted, and had no choice but to allow him into their ranks. Greyjoys loyal to Starks, Northmen loyal to Snow, Lannisters loyal to each other; their side got stronger, but she could see her cause getting weaker.

 

_For another time, another night’s sleep to lose. We could all be dead before I even see King’s Landing._

 

In the cold she reached for Jon. She took him riding and he showed her his country. His voice was soft round the edges, blurred by an accent she wasn’t used to and so earnest and charming she forgot the constant note of foreboding in his low tones. He was a romantic; close like a lover and loyal like a subject. His kisses were a shock of cold and then a slow-building warmth, seeping into her skin and reminding her what it felt like to be seen as another being, not a queen or a prophecy, but a heartbeat to synch to, a mouth to meet and a body to learn. They talked for hours afterwards, the Winterfell cold biting at her skin but his bulk beside her keeping her warm. They talked of their childhoods and their passions and their friends. They talked of their family and their homelands and their traditions. She came to know her people through him, and he came to know their families’ intertwined history through her. They spoke not of the future; such a thing would be foolish when they held something so delicate and wonderful between the two of them.

 

But bliss couldn’t last forever, and soon Winter was coming.

 

He looked her in the eyes, in the resting place of his family, and told her that he was a Targaryen.

 

She had wanted to love him, and for him to love her. He would have been her husband, and they would have united the world after they saved it, and then he spoke those words before his aunt’s, no his _mother’s_ , epitaph, and the world they’d worked so hard on wordlessly constructing crumbled around them.

 

She wasn’t the rightful queen. She had _never_ _been_ the rightful queen…

 

And Winter came nonetheless.

 

He swore he was loyal. He swore he was an honest man who kept his vows and he swore he didn’t want the throne for himself. It didn't matter. Whatever beautiful thing she thought she could allow to grow was strangled by the frost that spread. It had been a long road, harsh and full of horrors and hardships, and now, regretfully, from a place she might even have called heartbreak, he was changing before her, and sure enough he became just another person standing in her way.

 

But _oh_ , how she had felt for him. How she _needed_ him. How alone she was, despite having gained a family member. There was a time when she would have done anything for another Targaryen, to have the burden eased a little, but now it was fate’s insult; a jeer at her suffering.

 

She should have listened to reason. She should have kept her heart guarded. She shouldn’t have trusted anyone there, in that place of whispers and lies, where allegiance meant everything but could shift on a technicality; just because someone had the right or wrong name; a place where everyone is forced together behind cold stone walls, a breeding ground for secrets. Winterfell was a prison without its king on her side.

 

But there wasn’t time for that. Winter was here. It would be a matter of hours.

 

“You are to take the direwolf with you?”

 

“Yes, I believe so. Excuse me, _khaleesi_ , I didn’t notice you.” Ser Jorah tightened his horse’s girth and pulled forward its saddlecloth. “Even though you’re not easy to miss in this environment.” He added. With her silver hair and foreign dress sense, she understood what he meant.

 

“Is the vanguard prepared?”

 

“Aye, _khaleesi_ , we await the order.”

 

“It will be several hours yet, according to Bran.”

 

“It is difficult to relax regardless. I don’t think anyone will be sleeping tonight.”

 

The courtyard was darkening rapidly. The torchlight caught the detailing of his new armour. Since coming North, he had dressed in blacks and greys, furs and heavy cottons, and it suited him immeasurably. This was his native dress, and so she shouldn’t have been surprised that the North looked good on him. When she was silent for a few more moments, thinking once more on her army and how many she’d lose, he turned from his horse to look at her with concern. He’d had his hair cut, his beard trimmed, and the darkness of his clothes made his eyes look more blue than ever. The adrenaline and nerves that churned her stomach turned into something different, something unexpected, something impatient, something _new_ …

 

“Please, come with me. If all preparations are seen to, I would speak with you alone.”

 

He frowned, but nodded, before moving to a member of her _khalasar_ and speaking with him in rough words; orders, advice, comfort, support - she could not tell from this distance. It all sounded similar in Dothraki.

 

He sighed as he tethered his horse and nodded at her, indicating that she should lead the way. She thought that perhaps he was expecting a short debriefing off to one side, as he seemed a little more than shocked when she led him up to her chambers. She held the door open for him in a clear invitation, and he faltered on the threshold.

 

“Forgive me, _khaleesi_ , but I - and the men, of course - were wondering where Jon was? Should he not be with you?”

 

“He is spending the night with his family, so I thought I would do the same.”

 

Ever the brave man, unflinching in the face of death, Jorah swallowed heavily at the statement, and shifted where he stood. She could scare him like nothing else.

 

He entered, looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

 

“Where is Missandei?”

 

“I allowed her tonight for herself. I don’t need to look pretty for battle, and I think she was otherwise preoccupied.”

 

He smiled wistfully at that. “I had noticed Grey Worm’s absence after the order to wait was given.”

 

She echoed his sad smile. She imagined a great many people within the castle would seek love and solace in company tonight. For the first time, she saw Winterfell as the Starks did; a warm haven of camaraderie and hope, couched in harsh landscape of desolation.

 

“We may die tomorrow.”

 

“We may die tonight, _khaleesi_.”

 

“Are you afraid?”

 

He thought. She waited, outlined by the glow of the fire she stood before.

 

“No. _Valar Morghulis_.”

 

“I’m not sure I believe you, ser.”

 

“All fear death. I do not fear the fight for life. I am old, and I am somewhat proud of my achievements. Despite my many mistakes and personal shame, I believe I have lived a good life.”

 

He stopped speaking, but she felt he’d left a lot unsaid. She could guess what he’d held back. _Tomorrow, in the North, fighting for the living, is as good a way to die as any._

 

His eyes spoke what his voice would not; _Are you scared to die, my queen?_

 

She was, but a queen must show resilience. A queen must succeed where her subjects fail.

 

“Sit and drink with me.” She said, her tone neutral. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t an order.

 

He slipped out of his cloak, pulled off his armour, and followed her to the fire. After all this time, he still stood to attention in her presence, his back straight, the tilt of his head respectful rather than familiar. She would break him out of that mould.

 

She offered him a cup, and he hesitated, clearly debating whether it was wise to drink when they could be called to arms at a moment’s notice, but what was one’s last day on earth if not an excuse to indulge a little? He sipped it slowly, however.

 

“Why must you insist on leading the charge?” The sigh in her question betrayed her; this was Daenerys, not his _khaleesi,_ asking him. It was personal rather than strategic.

 

“The Dothraki know me. I speak their language. They trust me more than they would any Northern man, and they need someone to control them, perhaps even to reassure them.”

 

_A Dothraki horde, an exiled Northern knight and an albino direwolf. Perhaps even the dead could be taken by surprise._

 

Although deeply troubled by the arrangement, she knew he had a point. There was a reason he had been put on the front line despite her protests. She glanced at his scabbard, resting against the wall. The pommel was unfamiliar. He followed her line of sight.

 

“Heartsbane, it’s called. It seems that Samwell Tarly has a forgiving heart; it was his family’s sword.”

 

“Why did he give it to you?”

 

“I suppose he doesn't intend on fighting. He is a maester after all, to stand and fight would be suicide. I suppose he wants his family's legacy on the battlefield. It is a token to my father, who was apparently good to him. I can’t help but feel unworthy of it.”

 

“I burnt the Tarlys where they stood, and now my most trusted advisor is to be given the honor of fighting with their blade?”

 

Jorah shrugged. “It is Valyrian steel. Valyrian steel kills the dead. I suppose he wanted to make use of it.”

 

 _After you allowed Jon to keep the sword that, following my complete pardon, is rightfully yours to wield_. Still, Longclaw was a bastard sword, Jeor Mormont’s sword; it was understandable that Jon would feel attached to it.

 

“He deserves the highest of graces, considering what he overlooked in giving you that sword, and what he gave to me by saving your life.”

 

“When the was is done, _khaleesi_ , I have no doubt you will reward him.”

 

The silence that hung between them then was a new breed of uncomfortable. The tension was not personal, but existential; how many would be left standing when the war was done? How many would be left standing and still human?

 

“Tell me of your childhood, Jorah.”

 

“...What part of my childhood?”

 

“Any of it. All of it. Do you remember your first hunt? Your first banquet? Your first lesson? What food did you like and dislike? When did you learn to read, to swim, to ride, to fight? Who were your friends, your servants and siblings, your sweethearts, your enemies? You spoke often of the realm, but I know nothing of _your_ history, my knight.”

 

Ser Jorah was stoic and composed, measured and private, preferring actions to words and words to songs. He kept a lot close, a lot under control, and revealed only what was asked of him, _when_ it was asked of him. Daenerys believed that he did not find himself a particularly interesting topic of focus, and yet, with a life like he’d had, she wondered how he could have possibly come to this conclusion.

 

She listened to him talk, coaxing him out of his emotional armor and into the warmth of fireside conversation. He spoke of Bear Island, the crevices he’d seek out with his cousins to hide from his septa, the rock faces he’d climb looking for hawk eggs, the warm days spent swimming in the bay with the servants’ children, his chambers in the tower, drafty and overlooking the steep slopes of pine trees. He spoke of the songs his mother had sung, the words his father had taught him, the blacksmith he’d trained with before being schooled in swordsmanship on the mainland, the bland-tasting stews he’d eaten every day, the pretty handmaiden his mother had kept who played the guitar for him, breaking his arm on his first hunt and bringing down a bear on his second. She drank him in and settled him in her chest, laughing at his stories and prising open his heart, committing as much of the past that made up her knight to memory as possible.

 

That’s what being alive was; building something out of memories, making a ‘ _now’_ out of ‘ _then’_ , and carrying everything with you, the good and the bad. To fight for the living was to fight for a past and a future, as well as a present. Jorah’s was one life in millions, but hearing it narrated made it seem infinitely precious. _Infinite lots of infinity…_

 

“You fight for life, Jorah?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And what is life to you?”

 

He turned to look into the fire. She watched as the flames caught in his eyes, and took root there.

 

“Hope, I suppose. Loyalty, honour, duty, pride, camaraderie, justice, love, kindness…”

 

“You once told me that you prayed for home.”

 

“I am home. I have been for a while. Home is not a place. I couldn’t see that, all those years ago.”

 

“So what do you pray for now?”

 

She couldn’t tell if the carefully-measured expression that crossed his face then was bliss or despair.

 

“Redemption.”

 

She felt her heart swell a little. It was moments like these when she remembered that his devotion wasn’t entirely unconditional; he was a good man with his own personal morals, ambitions and standards. He didn’t follow her blindly, he had _chosen_ her. He was the only man who had never asked for anything in return.

 

“And you, _khaleesi_? What do you dream of?”

 

She dreamt of the throne. It had been the throne since Viserys died. Before that, what had it been? Woven into her life, dipping below the surface and then re-emerging later, what was it that called to her? A child she never met, her dragons soaring overhead, the airy relief of a throne room, a palace of hard stone and soft silk, a lemon tree growing by a red door. What name would she give these beautiful, fleeting images?

 

“Peace.”

 

“We have high expectations of life.” He said wryly.

 

“We must. And we must fight for even a chance. That’s what being alive is, I suppose, the prospect of a chance, where there is none in death. That is what we fight for.”

 

He smiled at her, looking just a little proud. His eyes scanned her face, committing it to memory, she presumed, as she had his a few hours earlier. He’d once told her that he’d look at her occasionally and struggle to believe that she was real. He, of all people, should have known that she was.

 

_Just these hours, here, in this strange place with these strange people. Just these next few hours, before the carnage comes and we watch each other die. Just now, for a moment, where we can breathe and collect our thoughts and make sure we won’t forget this, wherever we are when the dawn comes._

 

The night was dark, but not so full of terrors, _not just yet_.

 

“After all this time, Jorah, do you still love me?”

 

The question took him off guard, but he was quick to regain composure, as always. Even so, he couldn’t look at her as he answered, instead bowing his head in something that could have been taken as shame.

 

“Aye, _khaleesi_.” He said softly.

 

“Why?”

 

“I...I cannot answer, I’m afraid. I will love you until my last breath. It is in my nature.”

 

_Is love so difficult to name? Is it worth this anguish, when it is so easily misconstrued? Is love an inevitability or a privilege?_

 

“And yet, I have given you nothing.”

 

“You have given me everything.”

 

“I have used you. I have abused your weakness for my own gain.”

 

“Love is not weakness.”

 

“Love makes one single-minded.”

 

“It gives one purpose.”

 

“It makes one vulnerable.”

 

“It gives one something to fight for.”

 

Her brows drew together. The tug in her gut was back, the rolling of her stomach, the pull under her skin.

 

“It has crippled people. It has crippled me in the past.”

 

His posture was guarded but his gaze was open and relieved.

 

“It is strength. It is my greatest strength. I must fight for the living because love is the driving force of humanity.” He swallowed heavily, and raised weary, familiar eyes to meet her own. “I must fight for the living, because you are living.”

 

“Are you not tired of fighting for me?”

 

He laughed a little at that, a bitter smile pulling at his features. She knew the topic was uncomfortable for him, yet he remained good-natured.

 

“Of course not. As I once said; all I’ve ever wanted was to serve you. And serve you I shall. I believe in you; as a monarch, as a leader, as a woman, as a...as a friend.”

 

And he would never ask for more. In all the years he had served, all the pain he had fought through, all the things he had craved, all the torment he had endured, he would never even think to ask for more. This struck her then, like a physical blow, like she was seeing him as another human for the first time.

 

“I...Forgive me, _khaleesi_ , the world is ending and I’d rather not talk about this.”

 

“What better time than the end of the world? What if we both die tomorrow and you have left something unsaid?”

 

“I am not a master of words, but I don’t believe I have left anything unsaid. There is no corner of my heart that you do not know.”

 

“I don’t think that can be true of anyone.” Jon Snow was a book written in a language she could barely read. Ser Jorah was in her mother tongue, but rarely opened.

 

“In the House of the Undying, I was shown a vision.”

 

“They are known for their trickery and manipulation, _khaleesi_.”

 

“It was of the throne room in the Red Keep. I had to pass through Westerosi winter and Essos summer to reach it. I saw Drogo and my son, both alive, but I had to leave them.”

 

“It was an attempt to keep you trapped. They show you what you want to see so you remain in their domain.”

 

“I was forced to leave the family I could have had because I heard my dragons calling for me. I had to venture beyond The Wall, because I could hear them. And I had to turn my back on the throne because they needed me.”

 

He sighed, turning it over in his mind.

 

“These visions are lies meant to distract you. They take what you know, what you want, and twist it.”

 

“I had not seen The Wall, or the Red Keep. If it was from my imagination, how did I know what they look like?”

 

“It is shallow magic.”

 

“It instilled a doubt in me that I cannot remove.”

 

“You are the queen, by birth and by right. You are destined for the throne.”

 

A second of hesitation, that stretched to hours in her head, followed.

 

“It is not mine by right.”

 

“It is. They took it from your father. You are right to want to reclaim it.”

 

“There is another. I am not the last dragon.”

 

“ _Khaleesi_ -?”

 

“Jon Snow is not a bastard. He is the legitimate child of my brother and Lyanna Stark. Aegon Targaryen is his true name.”

 

He let the thought settle, his features drawn in confusion as he connected her words and rearranged the delicate web of Westerosi politics and bloodlines. She waited with baited breath.

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“This might not be a trap laid by your enemies?” He had always been suspicious, regarding everyone as untrustworthy until they proved themselves. Outside of Grey Worm and Missandei, Jorah saw thousands upon thousands of drawn swords, slowly turning towards them.

 

“No. Too many accounts match. It is the truth. There was a reason my dragons would allow him near. There was a reason he could fly them. He is wolf by nature, but he is half dragon by blood.”

 

“What does he intend to do?”

 

“Nothing. He claims he doesn’t want the throne, that he’ll support my cause and keep his heritage a secret.”

 

A moment’s silence followed, as Daenerys lost herself to memories of flickering torches in a dark crypt and skin on skin under wolf pelts. Jorah debated whether to trust the word of someone they barely knew, who had, at one point, resisted the idea of Daenerys’ absolute rule.

 

“Not that it matters. Not that any of that matters tonight. The throne is a puny little thing now we stand on the precipice of nothingness. The world will end tomorrow if we don’t stop it. This is no time to talk birthrights and bastards.”

 

He sighed heavily. She thought of how long he had lived before he met her, all the battles he had fought and all the distances he’d travelled. He didn’t seem tired though; world-wise but not world-weary. She’d always admired his vitality, the way it brewed in his strong stance rather than erupting out of him; it _endured_.

 

“You’re right, we must rest. There’s much to be done, _khaleesi_.” He stood, bowed to her and headed for the door. She had reached out and grabbed his arm before she knew she was doing it.

 

“ _Do not walk away from your queen, Jorah the Andal_.” She said, from somewhere far away. She barely noticed how she had slipped back into Dothraki. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist as she stood and pulled him round to face her.

 

“You have not been dismissed.”

 

He looked confused, worried... _afraid_?

 

“It may be your last night in this world. What would you ask of your queen?”

 

 _Nothing. He’d ask nothing_.

 

“ _Khaleesi_ -”

 

“Call me by my name, you’ve known me long enough to earn the privilege.”

 

_And it’s you I should trust, Ser Jorah? Only you?_

 

But he _did_ want. He’d never been good at hiding it, but it was so earnest, so painful, that it was more pitiful than threatening. It made her heart ache rather than her skin crawl. Maybe her drive to rule was fuelled by the fact that she imagined a sea of her subjects’ faces, all looking at her like Ser Jorah looked at her.

 

She reached out but he stepped away from her touch, ashamed at his own cowardice. When she moved forward, he moved back.

 

“You offered me your heart.”

 

“I did. I do.”

 

“I accept it.”

 

“But-”

 

“No ‘but’s; you offered it willingly, and I shall accept. I am tired of you being a martyr.”

 

“Is that not honour?”

 

“You don’t need to convince me of your honour. Discard it now, before it crushes you.”

 

She had backed him up to the wooden ottoman at the foot of the bed. She pressed a hand against his chest and he sat down obediently. He was looking at her with awe, but it was a new sort of wonder, like he’d never seen this side of her, which, she realised, he hadn’t.

 

Love was ugly and difficult to untangle. It resisted logic and betrayed her when she needed to be steadfast. Love may have been one of his reasons for fighting, but time was running out and she wasn’t going to sit around and contemplate every facet and colour of her emotions when they always arrived in a flash of clarity when the time was right.

 

She stepped between his legs like she belonged there and ran a fingertip along his left cheekbone, noticing but not acknowledging the way his breathing sped up. It seemed that after a moment of holding her gaze, he could bear it no longer, and averted his eyes, his jaw clenched.

 

She’d reminded herself often not to be cruel with Ser Jorah. She should not reward her most loyal knight with false hope and heartbreak, and although they had once been very close, effectively all each other had, that had to be sacrificed for the sake of their shared goal. She wouldn’t turn to him for comfort when she knew it would cause him pain. She wouldn’t toy with him for her own amusement more than she already had, holding him to a higher standard than everyone else because she knew he would meet it. But here, _now_ , the world was beginning to shrink and darken, and if she couldn’t give him what he wanted, then she could at least satisfy mutual curiosity.

 

She pressed her forehead against his, their noses touching, letting her eyes slide closed and feeling him strain against his tether. His hands were gripping the edge of the ottoman so hard she could hear the wood creaking. He said her name into the silence, in a choked whisper, like it was ripped from him, and she heard all of their history in it.

 

_“Daenerys.”_

 

She’d once told him to never presume to say her name. How many years ago had that been?

 

She pressed her kiss _into_ him, her lips already parted, skipping the formalities and giving him little time to think. When he opened his mouth in a gasp she pushed forward still, tasting wine on his tongue, and discovering, with some degree of alarm, that there were tears in her eyes. A sigh escaped her chest and bled into his own after stepping over a boundary never-crossed and never-addressed. There was no way to misinterpret her intentions, no way to pass it off as familial or friendly as with the kiss in Meereen; she arched into him, holding his face and biting gently at his lower lip, and when she thought he’d explode from his own internal conflict, she removed it for him as a kindness to both of them.

 

“Touch me.” She murmured against his mouth. The sharpness was there; it was an order.

 

She felt light pressure of his hands on her waist, cautious in a way that reminded her of the first time he’d touched her dragons; like she might set him alight without any warning. She leaned into him, sliding her hands around his neck.

 

 _Accept this, please. Allow yourself this_.

 

It was a small and selfish reward for his years of devotion, and she knew it might have been born of the aching resentment for Jon Snow she felt, but it was natural to be surrounded by him; his grip on her hips and the scratch of his beard. She could feel the rough, scarred skin through his shirt, and touched what she could reach of his collarbone, remembering how the infection had tried to consume him, and he’d ripped himself away from its clutches to return to her. Again.

 

She didn’t know what she wanted, but the yearning that always burnt at a low level in her stomach was getting both better and worse at his touch. _My bear, my brave bear, who thinks he is too lowly for glory and too old for victory. My bear, who fights even now, because he is not stupid, but he is a fool._ _My bear, mine..._ mine...

 

He kissed her like she was sacred but held her close like she was brittle, her protector and protected, subject and guardian, and it was remarkably strange. She’d listened to his counsel, ignored his pleas, forgiven his betrayal and prayed for his safety, but she hadn’t ever thought about him holding her like this, his hands on the small of her back, securing her in his embrace once he felt he had permission. She was doomed to be both worshiped as a queen and shielded as a woman, but there was something unwavering and certain in his passion that made her light-headed.

 

She pulled away from his mouth and heard the small sound that caught in his throat, the sudden realisation of her own power over him going straight to her head, among other places. She was cradling his face without realising, and she was breathing more heavily than she expected. It hadn’t been too long since she last lay with Jon, so there was no excuse for this ever-growing itch, this drive towards skin and safety and love, this unexpected  _need_ that consumed her...and at a time like  _this_...?

 

“Would you have your queen, Ser Jorah?” She managed, her voice breathy but even.

 

“I…” A broken man once more, she felt his fingers dig into her flesh where he held her, but he shook his head. She wondered if his expression was similar when Samwell Tarly was treating his greyscale. “I...am not worthy-”

 

“Standing has no place here. The world will end tomorrow. What do I care for titles now?”

 

“I only meant…”

 

_I know what you meant, my knight._

 

She wanted time to stretch and the fire to continue burning. She wanted to rest for a century but could not entertain the thought of sleep now. She wanted to carry all that she held dear, to pack it into a small box and clutch it to her chest so she wouldn’t lose it, and fly back across the Narrow Sea where the path was winding, but singular. She wanted to watch her enemies burn and scream, but she somehow still dreamed of peace. She wanted to stand, cold and unmoving, loved and feared, at the top of the new world she’d build for herself and her people, and she wanted to bury herself so far into Ser Jorah Mormont that she didn’t have to move or think or speak ever again. She was so tired of fighting, but the fight hadn’t even begun.

 

How could she tell him this? That at that moment, this was her lifeline? There was no way to communicate across the vast expanse of uneven history between them.

 

“Please.” She said.

 

_I am sorry._

 

In times still to come, she’d remember the way he sighed, the agony of his expression, the relief in his posture, the tears in his eyes. She’d remember the way he carried her, the way he’d kissed her and undressed her, they way he’d dropped to his knees before her once again, the way they’d rushed against the oppressive and unstoppable force of time running out. She’d remember pressing her palms against every patch of scarred skin she could reach in utter reverence and how he’d been so careful not to catch his fingers in her hair as he ran his touch through it with wonder. She’d remember herself reflected in his eyes, how it invigorated her in a castle of strangers who she didn’t trust, because he was no stranger, and she’d trust him with her life. She’d remember the guilt, the voices of her ancestors, the heat of the room against the cold of the winter outside, the fire glinting off Heartsbane, the word ‘ _khaleesi_ ’ in his low, rich voice when he forgot her orders. She’d remember him in the crook of her neck, against her lips, between her thighs, behind her eyelids. She’d remember, she’d _allow_ herself to remember, but not for a long time afterwards.

 

~

 

The end was here, and it was cold and dark. Swathed in fur, gaze like steel, she watched her armies stand facing oblivion, with the blackness shielding the enemy from view. Flanked by dragons, the human one took her hand. She felt what she thought was a squeeze of reassurance, but it was hard to tell through the thick leather separating their skin. She could barely stand still, her dragons shifting and growling in response to their mother’s unease. Winterfell stood strong in the snow, but somehow still looked small against the night. How many men would she lose tonight? It was easy to forget the threat of death on the back of a dragon, but ice was slower and more persistent than fire.

 

From this distance, she couldn’t be sure which of her Unsullied was Grey Worm, and she supposed that was his brilliance. He would be one of many, fighting for life in front of a castle full of hostile foreigners. She prayed for the crypt, for the castle, for the Godswood. She prayed the walls would hold and the glass wouldn’t shatter. She hoped for a miracle, and she received a priestess.

 

The cloaked figure approached Ser Jorah. Daenerys could barely make him out from her position, standing at the front of her _khalasar_ , with the Tarlys’ sword and a direwolf at his side. In a blaze of fire, like hope rearing its head all of a sudden, _arakhs_ were alight.

 

When the darkness came again, the flood of grief for her _khalasar_ , in true Dothraki fashion, quickly turned to rage. She was their _khaleesi_ , and she would seek vengeance in fire. Why had she brought them here, to their deaths, for a throne they knew nothing of and a war that surpassed their understanding? She caught a glimpse of armour amongst the scattering of horsehide in the retreat. He was alive, and with the direwolf. She must worry for individuals later. Her children called and the night rang with screams; long, dark, and full of terrors.

 

~

 

She values choice. Her agency is the most important thing she has gained, she has _won_ , in her years of womanhood. Every step she has taken, every path she has chosen, the people she burned or didn’t burn, the advice she followed or ignored, the alliances she’s made and the people she’s lost, leads to now. Bran Stark claims all choices lead to the same end. She had hoped that all choices led to home. Is this home? Was there no way to prevent this?

 

Destiny has no place here, she decides. Daenerys Targaryen, born in the storm, reborn in the flames, the queen that was promised, fated from birth to liberate and lead; there is no escaping who she is. The push and pull of her life was closer to Westeros and further away from home. She is tripping down a dark passage, going deeper and deeper underground, and the songs of her ancestors have turned to screams, and the red of the door has always been bloody, and as far forward as she pushes, she cannot grasp at tomorrow; paradise is, by nature, always out of reach.

 

Bran Stark is wrong, she tells herself. This wasn’t inevitable, and it wasn’t just her story. This was not an unstoppable pull towards a tragic end, foretold, written centuries before her birth; a necessary step on the way to destiny. No, this was the result of choice. Their choices. Her choices. His choices. Fate will not rob him of his agency.

 

There is something fated about how he always returned to her. She can see serendipity in his timing, his determination, his loyalty and his bravery, but he is _not_ a footnote in the greater story of their time. At least, it doesn't feel that way. Not now. Not to her.

 

This isn’t a chapter of her life closing. This is her skidding to a halt before she plummets off the edge of a cliff she never saw coming.

 

The dawn approaches. They have won.

 

She barely notices Drogon curling around her, around _them_.

 

Alone on a field of the dead, it had been a few seconds before she identified her saviour, coated in blood and grime as he was, tall and terrifying in the firelight, staggering, injured, exhausted, but she should have known instantly. She thinks of watching Jon leave, watching Drogon leave, sitting helpless on cold ground, the only truly living thing in sight. But he answered her call without her even raising her voice. He heard her without her saying anything. He was there when she thought she was dead. He came back to her, one last time.

 

_Oh my great, sweet, stubborn bear, what shall I do without you?_

 

This is a debt she can never repay. It would have been cruel of him to ask her to try, if he had ever asked anything of her.

 

It takes them hours to coax her inside, and he’s cold by the time they prise him from her grasp, crying, _screaming_ , praying and pleading. Men would call her hysterical. Women would see she is heartbroken.

 

_He is dead. My most loyal knight, my oldest friend, is dead, and it is my fault._

He died fighting for a woman that he thought didn't love him. He died fighting for a cause that, no matter how bad things seemed, he would never have considered lost. He died fighting on the land that spat him out, for the woman that had turned him away, for people that barely knew his name. He died valiantly,  _painfully_ , honourably, protecting his queen. But he still died.

 

It was a good death, but it was a death none the less.

 

_Jorah is dead. And it is my fault._

 

She will never forget the last look in his eyes. She will carry that sight of devastating bliss, of painful relief, of hopeless love, to her own grave.

 

In the process of grieving, rebuilding, strategizing and rehabilitating, she doesn’t quite notice that something has changed forever. She will not fully recover this time. She will face the horrors ahead with a little less of herself, exhausted and beaten and numbed by the weight of her own history. In her soul, in her blood, one of the tethers holding back the dragon snaps, and she looks out through darkened, dulled, suspicious eyes at a world full of enemies.

 

He was one life in millions, but he was  _one_ life in  _millions_.

 

 _Our enemies will pay, my bear. That is a promise_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If enough people want me to, I might write more for these two. I didn't expect to want to write more, but then again I didn't expect to feel so much for this pairing. Maybe a Season 8 fix-it, maybe a oneshot interlude somewhere in canon, I'm not sure. Feedback would be great, and if someone has something they really want me to write I might get round to it at some point!


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